Trevayne (19 page)

His father, who had been relegated to vice-president by a unanimous vote of one, thought his shop steward a cunning negotiator. The beer break came between one couch and two armchairs—all out of place. For them to get back in position, the can of beer was a small additional price.

By five-thirty Phyllis was as satisfied as she’d be, the movers’ cartons and sisal removed to the back of the house, the kitchen in order; and Pam came downstairs announcing that the beds were made—her brother’s in a way she hoped he’d appreciate.

“If your IQ was one point lower, you’d be a plant,” was Steve’s only comment.

The original owner of Monticellino—or, as he was referred to without much affection,
him
—had installed one desirable appliance in the kitchen: a char-broil grate. The collective decision was reached for Andrew to drive into Tawning Spring, find a butcher shop, and come back with the largest sirloin steak he could buy. Trevayne thought it was a fine idea; he’d stop and chat with the 1600 Patrol on the way.

He did so. And not to his surprise but to his liking, he saw beneath the dashboard of the government automobile, the largest, most complicated assortment of radio dials he could imagine in one vehicle outside of a spacecraft.

That was fine, too.

The original owner’s char-broil grate had one disadvantage: it smoked up most of the downstairs. As this required multiple windows to be opened, Trevayne remembered the rug switch to the guest-house panel, stepped on it, and loudly—if inexplicably to the children—complained redundantly about
him
and
his
char-broil fiasco.

“You know, Mom,” said Steven Trevayne, watching his father open and close the front door, fanning the not currently overpowering smoke, “I think you’d better get him back on a sailboat. Dry land does something to his lobotomy.”

“I think you’d better feed him, Mother,” added Pam. “What did you say? He’s been here for three weeks with no food.”

Trevayne saw his wife and children laughing and realized the apparent ridiculousness of his actions, vocal
and
physical. “Be quiet or I’ll cancel your subscriptions to
Child Life.
”

The outsized steak was good, but no more than that. Several other decisions were made concerning the butcher shop and
his
char-broil grate. Pam and Phyllis brought on the coffee as Steve and Andy carried off the remaining dishes.

“I wonder how Lillian’s doing?” asked Pam. “Up there all by herself.”

“That’s the way she likes it,” said Steve, pouring a half-cup of heavy cream into his coffee. “Anyway, she can tell off the gardening service. She says Mom’s too easy with them.”

“I’m not easy or hard. I rarely see them.”

“Lillian thinks you should look. Remember?” Steve turned to his sister. “She told us when we drove her into town last month that she didn’t like the way they kept changing the crews. There was too much time wasted explaining, and the rock gardens were always loused up. She’s a regular Louis the Fourteenth.”

Andrew suddenly but unobtrusively looked up at his son. It was a small thing, if anything, but it caught his attention. Why had the gardening service changed personnel? It was a family business, and as the family was Italian and large, there was never any dearth of employees. At one time or another they’d
all
worked the grounds of
Barnegat. He’d look into the gardening service; he’d make some inquiries into the Aiello Landscapers. He would dismiss them.

“Lillian’s protective,” he said, backing off the subject. “We should be grateful.”

“We are. Continuously,” replied Phyllis.

“How’s your committee coming, Dad?” Steve added some coffee to his heavy cream.

“Subcommittee, not committee; the difference is significant only in Washington. We’ve got most of the staff together now. The offices are in shape. Incidentally, very few beer breaks.”

“Unenlightened management, probably.”

“Positively.” Andy nodded.

“When do you start blasting?” asked the son.

“Blasting? Where did you pick up that word?”

“Saturday morning cartoons,” interjected Pam.

“Your father means relative to him,” said Phyllis, watching her husband’s concerned look.

“Well, aren’t you going to out-Nader the raiders?” Steve smiled without much humor.

“Our functions are different.”

“Oh? How so, Dad?”

“Ralph Nader’s concerned with overall consumer problems. We’re interested in specific contractual obligations pertaining to government agreements. There’s a big difference.”

“Same people,” said the son.

“Not necessarily.”

“Mostly,” added the daughter.

“Not really.”

“You’re qualifying.” Steve drank from his cup, his eyes on his father. “That means you’re not sure.”

“He probably hasn’t had the time to find out, Steve,” said Phyllis. “I don’t think that’s ‘qualifying’ anything.”

“Of course it is, Phyl. A legitimate qualification. We’re
not
sure. And whether they’re the same people Nader’s gone after or different people, that’s not the issue. We’re dealing in specific abuses.”

“It’s all part of the larger picture,” said Steve. “The vested interests.”

“Now hold it a minute.” Trevayne poured himself more coffee. “I’m not sure of your definition of ‘vested interests,’ but I assume you mean ‘well-financed.’ Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Heavy financing has brought about a lot of decent things. Medical research, I’d put first; then advanced technology in agriculture, construction, transportation. The results of these heavily financed projects help everyone. Health, food, shelter; vested interests can make enormous contributions. Isn’t that valid?”

“Of course. When making contributions has something to do with it. And not just a by-product of making money.”

“Your argument’s with the profit motive, then?”

“Partially, yes.”

“It’s proved pretty viable. Especially when compared to other systems. The competition’s built in; that makes more things available to more people.”

“Don’t mistake me,” said the son. “No one’s against the profit motive as such, Dad. Just when it becomes the only motive.”

“I understand that,” Andrew said. He knew he felt it deeply himself.

“Are you sure you do, Dad?”

“You don’t believe I can?”

“I want to believe you. It’s nice to read what reporters and people like that say about you. It’s a good feeling, you know?”

“Then what prevents you?” asked Phyllis.

“I don’t know, exactly. I guess I’d feel better if Dad was angry. Or angri
er
, maybe.”

Andrew and Phyllis exchanged glances. Phyllis spoke quickly.

“Anger’s not a solution, darling. It’s a state of mind.”

“It’s not very constructive, Steve,” added Trevayne lamely.

“But, Jesus! It’s a starting point, Dad. I mean,
you
can
do
something. That’s heavy; that’s a real opportunity. But you’ll blow it if you’re hung up on ‘specific abuses.’ ”

“Why?
Those
are
actual
starting points.”

“No, they’re not! They’re the sort of things that clog
up the drains. By the time you get finished arguing every little point, you’re drowning in a sewer. You’re up to your neck—”

“It’s not necessary to complete the analogy,” interrupted Phyllis.

“… in a thousand extraneous facts that high-powered law firms delay in the courts.”

“I think, if I understand you,” said Andrew, “you’re advocating a spiked broom. That kind of cure could be worse than the disease. It’s dangerous.”

“Okay. Maybe it’s a little far out.” Steven Trevayne smiled earnestly without affection. “But take it from the ‘guardians of tomorrow.’ We’re getting impatient, Dad.”

Trevayne stood in his bathrobe in front of the miniature French door that opened on the impractical balcony. It was one o’clock in the morning; he and Phyllis had watched an old movie on the bedroom television set. It was a bad habit they’d gotten into. But it was fun; the old films were sedatives in their way.

“What’s the matter?” asked Phyllis from the bed.

“Nothing. I just saw the car go by; Webster’s men.”

“Aren’t they going to use the cottage?”

“I told them it was all right. They hedged. They said they’d probably wait a day or so.”

“Probably don’t want to upset the children. It’s one thing telling them that routine precautions are taken for subcommittee chairmen; it’s quite another to see strangers prowling around.”

“I guess so. Steve was pretty outspoken, wasn’t he?”

“Well …” Phyllis fluffed her pillow and frowned before answering. “I don’t think you should put too much emphasis on what he said. He’s young. He’s like his friends: they generalize. They can’t—or won’t—accept the complications. They prefer ‘spiked brooms.’ ”

“And in a few years they’ll be able to use them.”

“They won’t want to then.”

“Don’t bank on it. Sometimes I think that’s what this whole thing’s all about.… There goes the car again.”

It was nearly six-thirty; the rest of the staff had left over an hour ago. Trevayne stood behind his desk, his right foot carelessly on the seat of his chair, his elbow resting on his knee. Around the desk, looking at the large charts scattered over the top, were the subcommittee’s key personnel, four men reluctantly “cleared” by Paul Bonner’s superiors at Defense.

Directly in front of Trevayne was a young lawyer named Sam Vicarson. Andrew had run across the energetic, outspoken attorney during a grant hearing at the Danforth Foundation. Vicarson had represented—vigorously—the cause of a discredited Harlem arts organization reapplying for aid. The funds, by all logic, should have been denied, but Vicarson’s imaginative apologies for the organization’s past errors were so convincing that Danforth resubsidized. So Trevayne had made inquiries about Sam Vicarson, learned that he was part of the new breed of socially conscious attorneys, combining “straight,” lucrative employment during the daytime with ghetto “storefront” work at night. He was bright, quick, and incredibly resourceful.

On Vicarson’s right, bending over the desk, was Alan Martin, until six weeks ago the comptroller of Pace-Trevayne’s New Haven plants. Martin was a thoughtful, middle-aged former stats analyst; a cautious man, excellent with details and firm in his convictions, once they were arrived at. He was Jewish and given to the quiet humor of ironies he’d heard since childhood.

On Vicarson’s left, curling smoke out of a very large-bowled pipe, stood Michael Ryan, who, along with the man next to him, was an engineer. Both Ryan and John Larch were specialists in their fields—respectively aeronautical and construction engineering. Ryan was in his late thirties, florid, convivial, and quick to laugh but deadly serious when faced with an aircraft blueprint. Larch was
contemplative, sullen in appearance, thin-featured, and always seemingly tired. But there was nothing tired about Larch’s mind. In truth, each of these four minds worked constantly, at very high speeds.

These men were the nucleus of the subcommittee; if any were equal to the Defense Commission’s objectives they were.

“All right,” said Trevayne. “We’ve checked and re-checked these.” He gestured wearily at the charts. “You’ve each had your part in compiling them; all of you studied them individually, without the benefit of one another’s comments. Now, let’s spell it out.”

“The moment of truth, Andrew?” Alan Martin stood up. “Death in the late afternoon?”

“Bullshit.” Michael Ryan took the pipe out of his mouth and smiled. “All over the arena.”

“I think we ought to bind these and offer them to the highest bidder,” said Sam Vicarson. “I could develop a penchant for the good life in Argentina.”

“You’d end up in the Tierra del Fuego, Sam.” John Larch moved slightly away from Ryan’s pipe smoke.

“Who wants to begin?” asked Trevayne.

A quartet of statements was the reply. Each voice assertive, each expecting to dominate the others. Alan Martin, by holding up the palm of his hand, prevailed.

“From my point of view, there are holes in all the replies so far. But since the audits generally concern projects with subcontracting fluctuations, it’s expected. Subsequent staff interviews are generally satisfactory. With one exception. In all cases of any real magnitude, bottom-line figures have been given. I.T.T. was reluctant, but they came over. Again, one exception.”

“Okay, hold it there, Alan. Mike and John. You worked separately?”

“We cross-checked,” said Ryan. “There was—and is—a lot of duplication; as with Alan, it’s in the subcontracting areas. Ticking off: Lockheed and I.T.T. have been cooperative down the line. I.T.T. presses computer buttons, and out shoot the cards; Lockheed is centralized and still gets the shakes—”

“They should,” interrupted Sam Vicarson. “They’re using my money.”

“They told me to thank you,” said Alan Martin.

“GM and Ling-Tempco have problems,” continued Ryan. “But to be fair about it, it’s not so much evasion as it is just plain tracing who’s responsible for what. One of our interviewers spent a whole day at General Motors—in the turbine engineering offices—talking to a guy who was trying to locate a unit design head. Turned out it was himself.”

“There are also the usual corporation tremors,” added John Larch. “Especially at GM; conformity and inquiry aren’t happy bedfellows.”

“Still, we generally get what we want. Litton is crazy. Smart-like-a-fox crazy. They finance; that puts them one to ten places removed from any practical application. I’m going to buy stock in those boys. Then we come to the big enigma.”

“We’ll get to it.” Trevayne removed his foot from the chair and picked up his cigarette. “How about you Sam?”

Vicarson mocked a bow to Andrew. “I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the gods for bringing me in contact with so many prestigious law firms. My modest head is swimming.”

“Translated,” said Alan Martin, “he stole their books.”

“Or the silver,” said Ryan between puffs on his pipe.

“Neither. I have, however, juggled many offers of employment.… There’s no point in recapping what’s come in on a relatively satisfactory basis. I disagree with Mike; I think there’s been a hell of a lot of evasion. I agree with John; corporation tremors—or delirium tremens—are everywhere. But with enough perseverance, you get the answers; at least enough to satisfy. With all but one.… It’s Alan’s ‘exception’ and Mike’s ‘enigma.’ For me it’s a legal jigsaw never covered in Blackstone.”